


The Accursed Huntsman of Bodmin Moor

by MizJoely



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Love Conquers All, Sherlolly Halloween at 221B 2020, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27283777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: Late one night, on a lonely, wind-swept moor, midwife Molly Hooper has a supernatural encounter that will change her life - but for the better, or for the worse?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 25
Kudos: 76
Collections: 2020 Halloween at 221B - A Sherlolly Celebration





	The Accursed Huntsman of Bodmin Moor

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by the musical composition _Le Chasseur maudit ("The Accursed Huntsman")_ by César Franck.

_Bodmin Moor, Cornwall 1676_

"Join me, Sherlock."

"No."

The man calling himself 'Seamus Moriarty' curled his lip in an angry snarl. "Join me, or my curse falls upon your head, as it fell on that of your father and brother before you."

Sherlock, only surviving son of the late Earl of Baskerville-on-Hudson*, folded his arms across his chest and planted his feet more firmly in the stirrups of his restless steed.

"No," he said again. He'd not besmirch the memory of the sacrifices his father and elder brother Mycroft had made by giving in where they had stood firm.

He and the Dark One stared into one another's eyes; the one pair black and licked at the edges with the hint of flames, the other a blend of earthly blues and greens flecked with gold.

"So be it."

In an instant the clear, moonlit night was obscured by roiling thunderheads; lightning crackled, thunder boomed, and a cold, bitter rain began to fall.

Sherlock, his favorite steed Barbarossa, and his pack of hunting hounds all screamed out in indescribable agony as an unearthly red glow suffused them.

And so the Dark Huntsman of Bodmin Moor was born.

_*Made up title, made up location_

**100 Years Later**

Molly shivered beneath her thin cloak. Perhaps she should have heeded the pleas of the young farmer and his wife whose babe she had safely delivered into the world mere hours earlier, and stayed the night with them. If she had, she would surely be asleep by now, warm and safe by the fire, but she hated leaving her Aunt Martha alone. Alas, there was no one to care for her but Molly now that her father had joined her mother in death.

She shivered again, but not from the cold this time. Her father had vanished on just such a night over a year ago while searching for a missing goat, and although some malicious souls whispered that he'd run off and left her and her aunt to fend for themselves, she knew in her heart that he had met some foul fate. That one day his weathered bones would be found in some wolf's lair or perhaps sunk deep in Dozmary Pool.

She smiled sadly at the memory of the many nights her father, a gifted storyteller, would regale her and Aunt Martha with the legends of that very lake. She could vividly picture Sir Bevidere of King Arthur's court heaving Excalibur into its depths to be taken into the watery embrace of the Lady of the Lake.

"Oh Molly, such fancies," she scolded herself, hurrying her steps and wishing she'd brought a lantern. But the moon was full and bright, shining down to show her the path that would lead her home. Perhaps it would help pass the time if she were to recite some of those old legends, the ones she'd heard from her father's lips so often that she knew them by heart.

Because that was all they were, mere legends, just like the legend of the Beast of Bodmin; surely no great Cat wandered these craggy grasslands; surely there was no such thing as the…

The sound of a hunting horn echoed through the silent darkness, bringing Molly's steps to a halt and speeding her heart in her chest. She looked around, wild-eyed, praying that it was some other, natural sound - thunder, perhaps, or a far-off church bell - and not...and not…

"Mother Mary save and protect me," she breathed out, clutching her hands to her collar as the sound of thundering hoofbeats sounded from behind her. She turned, slowly, oh so slowly, eyes wide and blood pounding in her veins as she beheld him, the dark-visaged rider on the hellish black stallion galloping toward her.

The Accursed Huntsman had found her, and surely she was doomed.

She stared up at him as he came to a stop directly in front of her, flinching away from the evil red gaze of the black stallion on which he was seated. "Well, well, what have we here," he boomed, his voice echoing eerily across the moor. As eerily as the horn he'd sounded, which hung now at his waist. "Has no one warned you of the dangers of crossing the moor at night, girl? Especially on this particular night?"

Molly flinched, her hands flying to her ears as he spoke. She'd known what night it was, of course, but had always been one who scorned such superstitions. Her father may have been a master storyteller but he was also a man of science, a healer who'd taught his only daughter to read and write and to see the world through clear, rational eyes. And yet here she stood, trembling before the terrible sight before her, the very spirit whose existence she'd scoffed at, and on the very night he was said to reign.

All Hallow's Eve.

"Do you know who I am, girl?" he said, more softly this time, but no less threateningly.

She nodded timidly. "You, you are the Accursed Huntsman of Bodmin Moor, sir," she replied. "Might, might I have your name before you ki - um, my name is Molly. Molly Hooper, an it please you." And she curtsied, as if he were a lord or a knight in a tale. Foolish, foolish girl, but it seemed, somehow, the right thing to do. Courtesy is never a mistake, she could hear Aunt Martha's words in her mind as clearly as if she stood by her side.

He stared at her, then let out a sudden bark of...laughter? "You are the first person to ask me that question in a hundred years on this moor, girl - your pardon, Miss Hooper," he said, still chuckling. When he smiled like that, she couldn't help thinking how very young and handsome he was, with his wild dark curls and full lips. A pity he was a demon sent from hell to steal her soul, or at the very least take her life. "My name, as it happens, is Sherlock Holmes, and my father is - was - Vernet Holmes, Earl of Baskerville-on-Hudson."

She'd heard of the Holmes family, all killed by plague she'd been taught, but apparently that wasn't the truth. Fascinated in spite of her terror, she worried at her lower lip with her teeth, wondering if she dared ask another question.

"Speak." She startled a bit at his command, at the touch of humor in that deep baritone voice. "I can fair see the questions trembling on your lips. Ask, and I will answer but be warned; once the moon reaches its zenith, the hunt must begin." Then, with a touch of bitterness: "The hounds will not allow either of us any rest until sunrise, and I fear you will fare no better than any other to whom I have given chase these many weary years."

The hounds. With a chill Molly realized for the first time that the rider and his horse were not alone; behind them, arranged in a ragged semi-circle, as silent as death, was a pack of hunting hounds. Like his steed, their fur was black as night, their eyes glittering redly in the moonlight, and Molly muffled a cry of terror with her fist pressed tightly to her lips.

"They will not attack until I have sounded the horn," the Huntsman - Sherlock - said softly. "As I told you, you have until the moon reaches its zenith. After that, I fear I am as helpless as you to stay them from the hunt. So speak, ask your questions. I will answer them to the best of my ability."

So many questions were crowding her mind, but there was only one, she realized, that she wished him to answer. "A man vanished on the moors a year ago. If he was one of your victims, I wonder if you might bring me to him, that I might say a prayer over his bones before you - before I -"

His eyes went cold; gone was the sudden, unexpected sense of comradeship they'd been sharing. "Shall you weep over those bones as well?" he spat out. "Did you love him so well that you would spend your remaining hours mourning him, rather than trying to save yourself?"

"I did," she replied simply. "I do. And if you would take me to him, so that I might know his last resting place, it would bring peace to my soul. My Aunt Martha and I have missed him sorely-"

A sudden laugh interrupted her. "Ah, of course. Your father," Sherlock said. "Not some pock-faced young lover."

Molly's cheeks burned at his mockery. "Yes, my father," she said, bewildered by his swift alteration in mood; were all spirits so mercurial? 

She started to explain the circumstances of her father's disappearance, to describe him, when the Huntsman made an irritated gesture of dismissal. "I remember every fool who's crossed my path, Miss Hooper, and alas, your father was indeed one of them. His bones lie mouldering at the bottom of Dozmary Pool, and yours will soon join him there. Save your prayers for yourself; you will need them far more than he who has already passed beyond all human concerns."

Molly felt a sob try to tear itself from her throat, but stood proudly silent despite the Huntsman's curt words. She would not give him the satisfaction; she would not cry, she would not beg.

But she would do one thing, if there was still time. She glanced up at the moon.

"Yes, it is nearly time," he said; did she imagine the tinge of regret? Yes, surely she did for his next words were as cold and cruel as the smile that now curved his lips. "You will have five minutes head start before I set my hounds on your trail." His lips - full, sensual, perfect - curled in a dark smile. "And before I follow after." He ran long, aristocratic fingers across the horn tied by his side in what could be read as a caressing manner, but Molly, cursed herself to see more than others did, knew it for what it was.

Contempt. Disgust. Hatred.

"No."

He raised an eyebrow at her refusal. "Would you truly deny yourself the chance to live?" He leaned down over his horse's withers. The black beast champed at the bit, rolled its blood-red eyes, but made no other movement as he held her gaze with his. "Are you so enamored of death that you choose its embrace over even the smallest chance at life?"

"How, how many of your victims have escaped you?" Molly could scarce believe her audacity in questioning this supernatural being, but couldn't help herself; curiosity was as much a curse upon her as her ability to see all the tiny details so many others missed. Greatly daring, she took one step closer. "How many, in the hundred years you've haunted this moor?"

He sat back up, an abrupt, restless movement that startled his hellish mount into snorting and stamping its unshod hooves upon the bracken. One hand automatically going to its neck in a soothing motion, the Huntsman continued to stare down at her. Small, plain, pitiful Molly Hooper.

She held no illusions about herself, but thought she saw the faintest glimmer of...something...in the Huntsman's eyes.

Something she dared not name aloud, but her mind whispered... _hope_.

"None," he finally answered her, his voice sounding hollow and bereft to her ear. "None," he repeated in a low whisper...and yes, that was despair she heard and it gave her the courage she needed.

Nodding her head, she calmly began to remove her cloak and the gown beneath it.

He jerked his head back at her actions, not bothering to calm his steed this time as his movements once again startled it. Molly shuddered as its whinny echoed eerily across the moorlands, but continued her movements. "What are you doing, woman?" the Horseman demanded, eyes narrowing as her gown dropped to her feet. "Do you think to seduce me into sparing your life?"

Molly did her best to ignore the contemptuous sneer in his voice; she knew very well the faults of her own body, how very un-tempting her slight form and small breasts were to the men she'd known. "You've given me five minutes head start, Huntsman," she said softly as her gown dropped to her feet. She leaned over to pick it up, folding it neatly atop her discarded cloak, then removing first her shoes and then the first of her undergarments. "I'll not run, but I'll not have my clothing ruined by the tearing teeth of your hounds or the hooves of your horse, either. Someone else can have the use of them after I'm gone."

She spared a thought for her Aunt Martha, wishing with all her heart that she could spare that elderly woman the heartache she would feel at her niece's loss, but knowing there was nothing she could do except leave behind proof that she hadn't simply run away or gotten lost on the moor. Had she paper and quill she would leave a note; barring that, this was the best she could do.

Reaching up, she pulled the ribbons from her hair, rolling them up and carefully laying the gaily colored strips of cloth atop the pile of clothing. The hilltop on which this uncanny confrontation was taking place was littered with stones; she chose two the size of her fists and set them firmly atop the ribbons, pinning them and all that lay beneath them in place.

Her task complete, she turned once more to her foe, her hair flowing down to her waist, the long brown strands blowing in the cold Autumn breeze as she clasped her hands before her. "I'm ready," she said, ignoring the eruption of goose-pimples, the way her teeth tried to chatter, the shivering of her nude form. "There's no sense in waiting for the moon to reach its peak, no sense in waiting at all. Blow your horn, set loose your hounds." She looked him squarely in the eye, knowing he could see her fear but also hoping he could see her determination. "I will not run from you."

She tried not to flinch as he abruptly dismounted, leaving the reins draped over the saddle-horn. He stalked toward her, the hounds now giving voice to low growls, the horse stamping its hooves and blowing steam from its nostrils. A pity they were hell-beasts; they were really quite splendid specimens.

As, indeed, was the Huntsman himself. Sherlock Holmes. So tall, towering over her petite form; broad of shoulder, narrow of waist, long of leg and handsome, oh so handsome of face. Some small part of her wished he was a mortal lover come to court her, rather than a demon sent to kill her, but as her father had been wont to say, "It is what it is, Molly-child, and wishing won't make it any different."

He stopped in front of her, staring down at her for a long, terrifying moment before reaching up and unclasping the cloak he was wearing - and dropping it gently over her shoulders. "Hold tight to me," he instructed; before she could do more than gape at him in confusion, he'd wrapped the cloak tightly around her shivering form and hoisted her into his arms. "There is just enough time for me to take you to your father's final resting place," he said as he placed her in his saddle and swung up behind her, lifting her onto his lap. Taking up the reins, he added, "You may say your final prayers for him, but remember to spare some for yourself."

"I will pray for you as well," she said softly as he held her with one strong arm. "Even though I don't know how you came to be cursed to this existence, your actions tell me you were a good man, once." And, greatly daring, she pulled his head down and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

The sound of thunder rent the sky; clouds scudded across the full moon from out of nowhere, plunging them into utter darkness. Molly cried out in terror; she heard Sherlock give a strangled shout, heard the hounds howling, the horse whinnying, and suddenly the clear notes of the hunting horn still hanging from Sherlock's side sounded, nearly deafening her.

The horse reared up; with a scream she found herself hurtling toward the hard, unforgiving ground, but at the last second someone - Sherlock? - grabbed her and held her tightly, rolling them so that she landed atop his supine form. She heard hoofbeats as the horse galloped away from them, still whinnying in terror as the last, tremulous notes of the horn hung in the air.

As swiftly as it had vanished, the moon reappeared, bathing them in its silvery light. Molly sat up, still holding the cloak around her body, staring in wonder at the sight that met her eyes.

A pack of hounds still surrounded them, but they were now the white and grey brindled beasts so familiar to her; their eyes no longer gleamed red, and the air of menace that had emanated from them was entirely vanished.

She saw the horse in the distance, shying nervously at every shadow but trotting toward them. It too had been transformed into a dappled grey or white - so hard to tell in the moonlight! - and its eyes, like those of the hounds, were no longer red.

Barely daring to breathe, Molly looked down at the Huntsman. At first she felt a rush of disappointment at seeing him - he looked exactly the same, still demonically handsome even while unconscious - if, indeed, he was still living! With a gasp she leaned over him, placing her ear to his chest, reassured to feel the steady beat of his heart. She sat back up in time to meet his confused gaze. "What...happened? What did you do, Molly Hooper?"

"Nothing," she denied, "I did nothing. But look!" she cried out as she beheld his hunting horn.

He did as she bade, staring in wonder at the sight of the shattered instrument. With trembling fingers he untied the remaining bits from his belt, then flung it away from him with a shout of disbelieving laughter. Still laughing he sprang to his feet, pulling her upright and taking her in his arms, whirling her about, everything about him radiating pure joy. "Nothing? No, Molly Hooper, you've done everything! You've broken the curse!"

She stared at him, shaking her head and trying to rise to her feet but he clasped her hands tightly in his, refusing to let her go. "No, not me, it, it wasn't anything I did, I'm just ordinary, I don't count, I don't matter!"

"On the contrary, Molly Hooper, you are the one who matters most," Sherlock said firmly, his eyes alight, not with hellish fury, but with what she was dearly afraid to name...admiration. Or even adoration? "Seamus Moriarty slipped up, he made a mistake in discounting the power of love - no, not romantic love," he added as she opened her lips to object. "Although that will come with time, if you'll allow me to properly court you. No, he believed only in hatred, he was empty and disdained the finer emotions, as did I in my youth and folly. I thought only of my name, my family honour but you - you had room in your heart even for the one who-" His words caught; he paused, cleared his throat, and continued on resolutely, with downcast eyes. "-the one who caused your father's death."

"If this Seamus Moriarty is the one who cursed you, then he is the one at fault, not you," Molly replied softly, her words startling him into meeting her gaze yet again. "If it is my willingness to forgive that has saved you, then I am grateful." A light blush stained her cheeks as she added, "And yes, if you choose to court me, I will not turn you away. But how will I explain you to my aunt, to the townspeople? Baskerville Hall is naught but a tumbledown ruin, your family's lands and titles must surely belong to some family descendent…"

Sherlock laughed delightedly. "To the devil with my name and titles,' he declared, sitting up abruptly enough that she nearly tumbled off his lap. Nearly. Strong arms reached out and embraced her, holding her close, their faces mere inches apart. "After enduring a century of half-life between one world and the next, I'll be happy to become a poor Hooper relation come begging for a place to stay - and one day, God and your good self willing, to become a Hooper in deed as well as name."

Oh, bold man, to speak so plainly about such intimate matters! Molly's blush deepened, but she did nothing to stop him as he lowered his face to hers, as his lips brushed against hers in the first of many, many kisses they would share over a long, satisfying life together.

**Epilogue**

As Sherlock laughingly assisted a still-blushing Molly in redonning her clothes, neither noticed the silent figure watching over them from atop a nearby hill. Lost in the shadows, sitting astride a black steed identical to the hell-beast the Huntsman had been cursed to ride, black hell-hounds at his side, Seamus Moriarty brooded over the sight before him. Lips curled in disdain he watched as Sherlock pulled Molly up to ride pillion, whistled for his boring, ordinary hounds to follow, and trotted off into the night.

"Fine, you win this time," he growled to himself as they vanished from sight. "But mark my words, this isn't over. You're due for a fall, Sherlock Holmes, and I will gladly provide the final push that sends you tumbling back into hell."

Scudding clouds once again hid the moon, and when they had cleared away, bathing the land in silvery light, he and his beasts had vanished.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to mychakk for reading this over for me!


End file.
